


A Stranger in a Strange Land

by thesecretdetectivecollection



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Gen, Liverpool fc - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-02
Updated: 2016-12-02
Packaged: 2018-09-03 17:02:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8721688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesecretdetectivecollection/pseuds/thesecretdetectivecollection
Summary: Stevie's flying to Houston while Liverpool play Borussia Dortmund at Anfield. He gets off the plane and sees the results. It's been awhile since he's felt that. There’s an ache in his chest, a sweet thing, like when eating ice cream so cold it makes your teeth hurt. The ache of seeing the girl you loved happy with someone else. It feels like being forgotten.





	

The plane lands in Houston, and Stevie’s already turning his phone on and desperately checking the score.

Liverpool have it, 4-3. He has a boatload of unread text messages from Carra, and he goes through them, because it’s very rare that two numbers can accurately tell the story of twenty-two men over ninety minutes. The story of kids staying up late, eyes glued to the television, or businessmen waking early and rubbing their eyes as they watch over breakfast. The story of a young boy who could hear the roar of the stadium from outside his house watching on telly inside, and going on to find home at its finest on that pitch, where every single blade of grass knew the feel of his skin from sliding celebrations and crunching tackles, from exhilarating victories and agonizing defeats. Where he wore a badge on his heart and showed the swarms of red his love and his devotion.

Yes, it’s rare that two numbers can tell the story of a football match, regardless of what the pundits say. Stevie loves Jamie for texting him these live updates. He goes through them, and as he reads, he knows what will be in the papers the next day. Comparisons to Istanbul. These ( _ ~~His)~~_ men in red have carved their names into history this night, and they rest there, next to his and Carra’s and Xabi’s.

There’s an ache in his chest, a sweet thing, like when eating ice cream so cold it makes your teeth hurt. The ache of seeing the girl you loved happy with someone else. It feels like being forgotten. He loves this club, and he’s glad they won, of course he is. But he wishes he was there. He wishes that a lot, actually, every time he walks into the dressing room with no Lucas or Hendo or little Phil ( _god, Coutinho had_ hated _being called Little Phil. Naturally it was all Stevie would called him, after that. And only because he was Stevie was he allowed to. Anyone else who tried it had ended up on the ground after a tackle even Carra would have called harsh._ ) in it, every time he sees Robbie wearing the armband, every time he pulls on a kit that isn’t red ( _ ~~you can’t cut Stevie and see him bleed this horrid white. You just can’t.~~_ )

He gets over it because he’s a grown man. He goes to the hotel, smiles good-naturedly at the lads (though he can’t bring himself to participate in the banter. Not this time.) He watches the few clips he can find of the goals and the post match celebrations. He watches Skrts leap onto Lovren’s back, watches Mama run around hugging and kissing every teammate he can get his hands on. He watches Jurgen skip over to his Little Phil and hug him so hard his feet leave the ground. He watches Jordan, hobbling around on crutches, being hugged with a gentleness that would surprise anyone who didn’t know the team inside out, like he did. Sorrow courses through him, because being a captain and being sidelined from a game like this? It’s hell on earth. 

So he calls Jordan, banking on him being awake, because after a victory like that, the lads will be too buzzed to sleep, and there’ll be a massive party. He calls, because once a captain, always a captain, and hell if he doesn’t feel a little responsible for Jordan Henderson, having seen him from his first days, having groomed him for the captaincy. He calls, because he knows how hard it is to sit out of a game like that. He remembers that last Champions League match, against Real Madrid in the Bernabeu, how cold the bench had felt beneath his legs, and how he had grit his teeth, keeping his mouth shut because the team always, _always_ came first.

They talk for a bit, then they FaceTime, and Stevie is passed around to all his old teammates, and some faces he knows only from that brief training period in the winter. He comforts Hendo, congratulates the rest, and leaves his team in capable hands. He has trouble falling asleep, and he dreams of the rush of Istanbul, the high of sharing that moment with Carra, of meeting Xabi’s lips in that cheeky kiss as flashbulbs went off all around him.

The next day, he’s captaining the Galaxy against Houston. They win 4-1. He has a hand in two of the goals, and his passes are _sublime_. It’s a brilliant victory. His mind is in Liverpool, on the memorial service he couldn’t go to, on the black armband and the Instagram post, all he can do to show his support for his city, for his club, for his people, on the twenty-seventh anniversary of Hillsborough. 

He wishes instead for a game that demands blood and sweat and tears. A game that calls for inspiring half-time talks, and using that aura of authority he wears as a second skin now to get the best out of every man on the team. A game that ends in a roar so loud he can’t hear the blood rushing in his ears. All he can see is his teammates, beside him on the pitch, with their arms around him, and his name being sang by the people who love him faithfully, echoing around the stadium… _Steve Gerrard Gerrard_ … (they say his name differently here, with the stress on the second syllable. He doesn’t quite like it, but he doesn’t protest.) 

He blinks, and the number 14 in front of him isn’t Xabi Alonso, and isn’t Jordan Henderson. It’s Robbie Rogers (a good lad, really, but he’s not a _Red_ ). Ashley Cole isn’t wearing Chelsea blue, but the same white kit that Stevie feels stretched across his own shoulders. The crowd shouts his name, but it’s stilted. Gerr- _ard_ , Gerr- _ard_ , Gerr- _ard_. 

He deals with it, because he’s a grown man. Still, in his ears he can hear the memories of the Kop singing. 

**Author's Note:**

> Because I couldn't stop thinking about Carra wanting to talk to Stevie about the match, but Stevie being unavailable. But you just know that Carra's confident enough to send a million texts in a row, at least to Stevie.


End file.
